22. Tallus

Iwaited five minutes before following Diem. He hadn’t gone far. I found him sitting on a cement roadblock divider the construction crew had placed near the curb, staring along the street as he spun something in his hand.

It was close to eight, and the sun had dipped behind the buildings long ago, leaving this section of the city deeply shadowed. Traffic was steady, and the scent of exhaust and pollution filled the air.

I approached the troubled man and sat beside him. The item he toyed with was a cellophane-wrapped pack of cigarettes.

“I stress you out that much, huh?”

“I didn’t open them.” He stared at the package. “I’ve caved four times since I quit. Each time, I smoked for two days or so before tossing the pack and starting from ground zero.”

“Are you going to cave again?”

“Probably.” A pause. “Not today.”

“I’m sorry I pushed myself on you.”

Diem stayed quiet, gaze locked on the cars moving up and down the busy street.

I wanted to tell him there would be no more pressure from me. I wasn’t aiming for a relationship, and he was free to tell me to fuck off if he wanted, but I sat with him in silence instead while he worked through whatever he needed to work through.

“Do you still want to help me?” he asked after a long silence.

“Your job is far more entertaining than mine.” And if coming on too strong had scared him off and jeopardized my position as his, what had he called me? Assistant? Then I would have been devastated.

“We should chat with Natalia Shore.”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow. Catch her first thing.”

“Can’t. I’m back at work, and Kitty won’t be in since she’s covered for me for two days now.”

“Shit. Okay. We can go when you’re off.”

“Maybe I’ll learn something at work.”

Diem nodded, only half with me, still peering into the distance.

I stood, and when he finally broke from his daze and his attention turned to me, I brought my hand to his head. Gently, I ran my fingers over his scalp, through his shorn hair. He closed his eyes, but the tension in his jaw never went away.

“My nana wants me to grow my hair,” he said. “Boone never shaved his head, and half the time, she thinks I’m him, so it bothers her.”

“You’d be handsome either way.”

He huffed. It was more a noise of dejection than humor. “I’ll never be handsome.”

I continued the massage for a minute, watching the complicated man as he suffered in silence.

“I’m going to take off.”

He nodded, and when I dropped my hand, he held out the pack of cigarettes. “Take these. Please. I don’t want them. Having them on me is too tempting.”

I took them. “I’ll be here by six tomorrow. Is that okay?”

Another nod.

“And, D?” I swung a finger between us. “No pressure with this, okay? It doesn’t need to be anything more than what it is. Two guys dueling swords on occasion. It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye, they say.”

A strangled noise left Diem’s throat—the same almost laugh I’d heard a rare handful of times. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I chuckled. “Blame Kitty. See you tomorrow.”

I dodged traffic crossing the street and tossed the cigarettes into a nearby garbage bin before entering the parking structure where I’d left my car. I didn’t look back but knew Diem watched me walk away. I knew he was beating himself up.

For everything.

***

“I think,” Memphis gestured with the pointy corner of his sandwich, “you empathize with his past.”

I stole a fry from my best friend’s plate. We’d met at a cheap diner for lunch, but my expenses were limited, so I’d ordered a simple bowl of soup and was still hungry. The topic of conversation was Diem, of course, since I hadn’t been able to get him off my mind since I left him looking forlorn sitting outside his office the previous day.

“My father never beat me.”

“Abuse is abuse. A person doesn’t have to lay a hand on you to cause damage. I think you commiserate with the ice giant. You have a miserable past, and so does he. It’s both cute and disturbing. What is it you want from him?”

“I don’t know.” Memphis swatted my hand when I reached for another fry.

“Babe, please tell me you don’t want to date him.”

“Haha. You’re funny.”

“Is it his monster dick?”

“No.”

“Is it the sleuthing?”

“Maybe… No. I don’t know what it is.”

“Are you attracted to him?” Memphis made a face that suggested the notion would be unfathomable. He couldn’t see beyond superficial beauty, so it didn’t shock me. He was shallow like that.

“So what if I am?”

“To each his own.”

“Anyone ever tell you how callous you sound?”

Memphis bit into his sandwich with a shrug.

“Diem appeals to me in a way I can’t explain. He gives off serious alpha vibes while at the same time, he’s this tight ball of anxiety who second-guesses himself when it comes to anything sexual and can’t figure out how to be intimate.”

“Amazing qualities. I can see why you’re troubled.”

“Stop being a sarcastic dick.”

“Stop stealing my lunch.” He smacked my hand again as I tried to sneak a fry. “Sex doesn’t have to be intimate to be good. Seriously, take the dicking, sweetheart, and leave it at that.”

He didn’t get it. We weren’t the same. Memphis’s long list of sexual encounters consisted of bathroom hookups at Gasoline. He was happy to exchange blow jobs with barely legal college students.

It wasn’t that I was looking for anything permanent, and it wasn’t that I was against impersonal hookups—I liked the variety—but was it too much to ask to have a guy pay attention to me? Put his hands on me? Worship the moment we shared, even if it wasn’t meant to last?

I liked kissing. I liked groping, and grinding, and fondling. I liked lying sweaty together afterward. Sue me.

I checked the time on my phone. “I gotta run.”

“When will you be done with the ice giant tonight?”

“Don’t call him that, and I don’t know.”

“Text me if you’re home early.”

I doubted I would be, but I agreed to Memphis’s request.

The afternoon dragged on. Without Kitty, the records room was depressing. I input more data into the system and researched the hit-and-run from 2010. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that I got confirmation that Roan Guterson was indeed the victim of David Shore’s vehicular homicide charge. I didn’t go hunting for details. I didn’t hound Doyle since Diem and I were clearly on his shit list, but the website updates came through as I expected. Unfortunately, they were vague.

To keep myself busy, I traveled the meandering internet paths of Beth Rowell, Noah Willard, and Olivia Lansky’s lives. They all had a social media presence—most people did these days. Beth’s and Olivia’s were far more robust than Noah’s. I read posts going back months until I got bored, then I viewed their galleries of photographs.

Beth’s children took after her husband, whereas Olivia’s were her spitting image. I witnessed their weddings, one on a beach and one in a church, and I was privy to their endless vacations. Olivia traveled more: to Peru, Italy, New Zealand, Holland, Japan, and France. Beth preferred beach destinations. The Dominican Republic, Jamaica, and Mexico. They had gone to carnivals, theater productions, art shows, the zoo, amusement parks, boating, swimming, concerts, and more.

Noah’s photo gallery was minimal, although the section showing pictures he was tagged in was more substantial. I scrolled through them. Wedding photos—tagged by Faye. A few golf tournaments—tagged by a guy I assumed was a friend. Noah biking in an event—again, tagged by Faye. Noah taking part in a triathlon—again, Faye. Noah playing rugby, football, tennis, and soccer. The guy was heavily into sports. Noah and Faye at local baseball games, watching the Blue Jays. Noah with his face painted at a Buffalo Bills game. Noah waterskiing. Mostly his wife was the one who broadcasted his life. There were all kinds of photos of them together, lovingly smiling at the camera, kissing, and enjoying life. They looked happy.

It wasn’t until I got more than a decade deep into my investigation that I slowed and paid more attention. Beth and Olivia at university, both dating different men other than the ones they would eventually marry. Noah at a keg party, wearing a rugby shirt and looking beat up with a deep line of stitches running across his forehead, a hint of black eyes, but with a wide grin. He held a red solo cup in his hand, cheersing the photographer. The glassy sheen of his irises told a story of its own. Noah was trashed. Again, his pictures were all tags from other people.

A few of the photographs in the women’s albums were of college parties too. Since they all went to York at the same time, I scanned the people in the background, unsure what I was looking for. David maybe? Roan? I didn’t know. No one looked familiar.

I paused when I got to a group of pictures of Noah and Beth together.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I muttered aloud.

Another drunken party. The two were kissing and appeared to be dancing the way drunk people danced. I read the caption beneath the image.

It seemed Noah and Beth had dated for a time. It didn’t take long before I found more of the three of them together. The time period matched, and I paid close attention to the dates.

My scroll was a reverse look at their lives. The further back I went, the younger they got. When I reached a time before university, I stopped my search and went back to the party days.

Again, I looked among the crowd, seeking more, but not finding anything.

I noted the vast majority of the party pictures happened the same year Roan Guterson was killed. Did they know him? Had they partied with him?

The chronology of photographs held no answers.

I did a similar search for Roan Guterson. Because he had been killed, the majority of what I found were memorial posts from friends and relatives, mourning his loss and offering condolences to his parents. His social media beforehand was less informative than Noah’s. A few family pictures, but not much else.

When nothing stood out, I switched to David Shore.

The statistics professor’s social media presence was almost nonexistent, so my search was short-lived.

Giving up, I balanced my chin on an upturned palm and stared at the computer screen, thinking.

I wondered if the homicide detectives had gone to chat with Natalia again and if we would be too late. I wondered what they’d found in Shore’s car that made them certain he was guilty. Was it even the car that had sealed his fate? The crime was more than a decade old. It seemed impossible.

Curious, I did more research into the professor, eventually finding out that David Shore had the same car registered to his name for the past fifteen years. It was purchased new in 2009, a year before the supposed hit-and-run.

Knowing Doyle and Fox had probably already done it, I made a request to the Ministry of Transportation for a vehicle history on David Shore’s car. It wasn’t hard to get the VIN. There may have been all kinds of things I didn’t have access to in our system, being nothing more than a lowly records clerk, but there was a lot of information available if I knew where to look.

It was five, and I had thirty minutes left of my shift. Since the woman possessed some kind of weird hippy voodoo magic, I called Kitty on the off chance she might have helpful knowledge.

She answered on the second ring, and when she realized who it was, she cooed, “Oh, Tallus, love. I heard you weren’t well. Those darn migraines. They are so unkind to you.”

“I’m okay now, Kitty Kat. Right as rain. You know me. I bounce right back. Was it crazy busy while I was gone?”

She tittered. “That office hasn’t been crazy since I started working there.”

I smiled. I really did love the woman. “I hope you weren’t too bored without me.”

“Of course I missed your company, but that’s okay. I’m glad you’re better. What’s got you calling?”

“Well, I know this is a long shot, but since you’re a witch, I figured I’d ask. Did you hear anything about the David Shore arrest yesterday?” I didn’t elaborate on who David Shore was or what he’d been arrested for. Kitty and her strange wisdom would likely already know, and I was right.

“Oh yes. The hit-and-run from 2010.”

“You astound me, Kitty Kat.”

“I heard they found a bloody rag tucked away under the panel in the trunk. Two types of blood on it, to be precise. They matched one to the man who was killed. Had it on file. Came up right away and sent the boys running. Now, what was his name? Roan something or other.”

I gasped dramatically, clutching my chest even though she couldn’t see me. “So you aren’t god? You don’t know everything?”

“Guterson, was it?”

“Or maybe you are. Blood, you said?”

“Now, honestly, if you hit someone with your car and got out to help, realizing they were still alive, would you drive off and leave them to die? Yeesh. I mean, the least you could do was call an ambulance. I don’t understand people.”

“I agree. It’s despicable. Blood? You’re sure they found blood?”

“Yes, love. On a rag. Two types. So far as I know, they took a sample from Shore and sent it to the lab to be analyzed. Probably a match. Likely got hurt in the collision as well.”

“So they don’t know about the second type yet?”

Kitty tsked. “These things take time, Tallus. You know that. Anyway, it didn’t matter. They had enough for an arrest, so they moved in.”

“Do you know why they impounded his vehicle in the first place?”

“Got a phone call about him dealing drugs from the car. You know he was being investigated for other things, right?”

“Yeah, I knew. Did they find drugs?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Kitty?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“How do you know everything all the time? I’m serious. Are you a witch? You can tell me.”

She cackled like the brat she could be sometimes but didn’t answer. “How’s my cuddle bear? Are you taking care of him?”

Annnnd that was my cue to get the hell off the phone.

“Nicely played, Kitty Kat. Nicely played. I gotta run. Closing shop for the night. Are you in tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there at noon. Don’t bring lunch. I have you covered. I made lasagna.”

“Excellent. You are my new favorite person. See you then.”

“Say hi to Diem for me.”

I rolled my eyes and smiled. “I will.”

I had avoided texting Diem all day, regardless of how many times I found myself reaching for the phone, wanting to share about my searches. After everything that had happened the previous day and my recent lunch conversation with Memphis, I wasn’t sure what my deal was with the brooding giant. I didn’t know why I was pushing for something Diem clearly didn’t want to give. Maybe bathroom hookups didn’t appeal to me anymore, but I was too young for commitments. I liked the freedom to be picky and choosy and play the field.

But fuck Memphis. Diem was so attractive. Maybe not in a traditional sort of way, but he had tremendous appeal. To me at least.

At five thirty, I locked up and headed to Diem’s office, hoping the weirdness from the previous day had dissipated overnight. I wouldn’t push him anymore. I wouldn’t try to cross lines he didn’t want to cross or force him to do things that clearly made him uncomfortable. I could be a gentleman.

He greeted me at the door in the typical Diem fashion—no eye contact, a grunt, and with every muscle through his body tensed to the extreme.

“Shall we?” I asked without entering. “I figure you’ve been raring to go all day. We may have already missed her. Did you check her teaching schedule?”

“She teaches a class until seven,” he mumbled. “We have time. Hang on.”

He retreated into the office, leaving the door ajar. I waited in the hallway, adjusting his perpetually crooked sign. He needed a new one. When he returned, Diem handed me a paper bag and a take-out cup.

“What’s this?” I asked with a smile.

“Latte.” He shifted with evident discomfort. “Cinnamon and brown sugar-flavored. Turkey sandwich. Peanut butter cookie.” More shifting. “I figure you haven’t eaten.”

I stared at the offering, then at Diem. A flush ran up his neck, but he still wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “About yesterday.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I was too pushy and didn’t respect your boundaries. Thank you for this.” I held up the food and latte.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“I am.” The bowl of soup I’d had at lunch was long gone from my system, and I hadn’t had a coffee since pre-migraine. I was more than ready to indulge.

Diem grabbed the keys by the door, and I followed him down the hall to the stairwell. He drove us to campus while I ate. I offered him half the sandwich, which he turned down, mumbling that he’d already had one.

But he did take a piece of the cookie, which made me smile.

“Kitty says hi.”

“Oh.”

I chuckled. “Since she’s a certified witch, I called her to see what she knew about Shore’s arrest. She says they found a bloody rag stowed in his car. It was a match to the Roan kid who died in 2010. Can you believe that?”

Diem kept switching his attention from me to the road, watching traffic but clearly interested in what I had to say.

“That’s not all. They found two types of blood on the rag.”

“Who the fuck keeps a bloody rag in their car after committing a crime?”

“I don’t know. David Shore? It was under the floor panel in the trunk. I assume he hid it there in a panic, meant to get rid of it, and forgot.”

“He forgot?”

“I don’t know, D. I’m telling you what they found. They haven’t identified the other blood.”

“Christ, if you kill someone with your car, get rid of the fucking evidence. It was over ten years ago. Did he not have time? Idiot should have had it detailed.”

“Or sold.”

“What a moron.” Diem shook his head.

“I put an inquiry to the MTO for a history on the vehicle. I’m guessing he would have likely needed repairs done on it after the accident. I’m sure Doyle’s already done that, but I wanted to know.”

Diem grunted, still seemingly stuck on the idiocy of some criminals.

We arrived at the university a few minutes before seven. Diem encouraged me to finish my food, and we wandered to where Natalia Shore’s last class was taking place. The foyer outside the lecture hall was quiet, and I could make out the faint sounds of a seminar within. I didn’t miss college. I didn’t miss late nights studying.

“What are we asking exactly?” I wondered aloud.

“I want to know if the names Beth, Olivia, or Noah are familiar. I have pictures of all three. If Natalia’s been keeping tabs on her husband, she may have come across them and not known who they were or how they connected.”

“And we’re pretty confident they knew about Shore’s crime?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. Have you talked to Faye?”

“Not in the last few days. Not since this went from affair to murder. I don’t think her husband was cheating.”

“Neither do I, but he had much darker secrets.” Remembering my searches from that afternoon, I added, “By the way, he and Beth dated in university. I found pictures of them online. All three of them attended parties together. I think they were close friends. Noah was a jock. Sports guy. Competitive. The girls were pretty and probably popular.”

“Anything stand out?”

“Not really. I looked for David and Roan, but they were dead ends.”

People started streaming out of the lecture hall, halting our conversation. We let the crowd dwindle before entering.

The downward-sloping gradient seating ended in a well where a beautiful woman organized her briefcase. David Shore was in his sixties, but Natalia looked a decade or more younger. Her golden-blonde hair shimmered in the overhead lighting, sweeping her shoulders in gentle waves. She was tall and shapely, wearing a navy pantsuit that fit her like a glove.

She startled when Diem said her name, jerking her head up with instant terror in her eyes. She dropped the papers she’d been arranging and reached for her phone, backing up a step. “Leave, or I’ll call the police.”

I placed a hand on Diem’s arm, stopping our advance, unsure why Natalia was on alert. “We’re not here to hurt you, Mrs. Shore.”

Why was she acting so afraid?

Darting her wary gaze between us, she held her phone at the ready, prepared to make good on her threat.

Diem stayed quiet, subtly nudging me, and I got the hint he wanted me to take over, knowing he was too imposing and abrasive to calm down a scared woman.

I held my hands in a placating gesture as I spoke. “My name is Tallus Domingo, and this is my partner, Diem Krause.”

The bear stirred and growled quietly in Diem’s chest, and I smothered a grin. He was so sensitive to the suggestion of partnership.

“We’re private investigators. We mean you no harm.”

“Private investigators?” Natalia frowned, flicking her gaze from Diem to me.

Diem fished his wallet from his pants pocket and opened it to the identification that proved he was a certified investigator. He tossed it toward her. It landed several feet away, but she advanced and picked it up, still armed with her finger over the phone screen.

She glanced at Diem’s ID, and her shoulders relaxed. “I’m sorry. I thought you were that kid’s dad. He’s been harassing the staff and students ever since my husband’s arrest, looking for information. The police were supposed to take care of him.”

“What kid?”

“The one my husband killed.” She rolled her eyes. “Allegedly killed.”

I glanced at Diem, whose expression was unreadable.

“I suppose this is about my husband too?” No longer fearful, Natalia looked tired. The shadows under her eyes suggested she hadn’t been sleeping. Her makeup only went so far in covering her stress.

“In essence,” I said, hoping to ease her in. “We were asked to investigate three students and discovered David might have been involved with them in 2010, the same year as the incident. We were wondering if you’d seen or talked to them recently.”

Natalia’s hand holding the phone dropped to her side. She glanced at a wall clock nearby. “Will this take long? I’m supposed to meet my daughter after class. She’ll wonder where I am.”

“A few minutes.”

Natalia peered between us as though contemplating what to do. “Are you working with the police?”

“No,” Diem said, entering the conversation for the first time.

Natalia eyed him warily. I couldn’t blame her. Diem was intimidating, and the woman was on edge. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t think I want to get involved. My husband made his bed, and he can lie in it. I should have known. He’s always been secretive.” She shook her head. “No. I don’t know what my husband was up to then or now. He can burn in hell for all I care. I’ve already filed for divorce, but this isn’t my problem. Please leave me alone.”

She returned to the table and continued to pack her briefcase. I touched Diem’s arm, silently telling him to stay put as I joined her, keeping a moderate distance.

“Mrs. Shore, I understand you’re under a lot of stress.”

She huffed. “You have no idea.”

“Ma’am, your husband could be responsible for far more deaths than one hit-and-run from fourteen years ago.”

She stilled and lifted her gaze. Pale-blue, glassy eyes peered back at me. “What do you mean?”

“We think the three people we’ve been investigating knew about his crime in 2010. They knew and helped keep his secret. Two of those three students died recently under suspicious circumstances. We think David was trying to cover his ass before the police found out what he did.”

Natalia pressed a hand to her mouth. The shimmer in her eyes intensified until tears leaked out and trickled down her cheeks.

“If we can tie your husband to these old York students, then we’ll take it to the police.”

Natalia glanced at her desk, warily back at Diem, then at her phone. “Okay. Can you meet me in the morning? In my office at seven? I don’t have class until eight. We can talk then. I… let me process. Let me talk to my daughter.”

“Seven?”

She nodded.

I didn’t push for more. “Thank you. I’ll be there.”